


Safe and Sound

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Corsetry, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, SO, and that any support garment they might have would probably be reed or corded stays, but damn it they deserve this, this is technically a PWP but there is a POINT to it, yes I know modern corsets Did Not Exist prior to the 1800s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22797310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: "hypervigilance [hi″per-vij´ĭ-lans] (n): abnormally increased arousal, responsiveness to stimuli, and screening of the environment for threats; it is often associated with delusional or paranoid states."If all you know is the threat that might come for you, it is pure bliss to find peace.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	Safe and Sound

Maitimo is kneeling, motionless, hand and arm clasped behind his back. Findekáno looks at him from the other side of the room, eyes roving over pale flesh crosshatched with paler scars. It is a hungry, burning look, one that he hardly ever lets himself give, but the House of Fëanáro does not have sole claim to fire.

He finds himself endlessly fascinated with the line of muscle under skin, the way that collarbone and hip stand out in elegant arches begging to be covered by lips and teeth, the tension evident in every breath the other _nér_ takes. Even now, after Angamando, after starvation and torture, after deprivation and the ravages of wind and rain and Valar know what else, his husband is stunning, and in gazing upon the nude form before the fire, he very nearly loses his composure. But Maitimo's own eyes are closed, and so he does not see the blush, or the trembling fingers, or the determined cast that falls over Findekáno's face as he forces himself to hold to their game. _He needs this,_ the prince tells himself, _and I will give it to him._

"Are you ready for me, lovely?" he asks, and it is a wonder his voice does not shake as he speaks. It is the first time they are playing this game, though secretly he hopes it will not be the last. Maitimo flinches, though his eyes do not open, and the shock of the sound seems to ripple through his whole body, and Findekáno cannot help but smile at the sudden realization that this _nér,_ the finest warrior in his father's service, the lord of the eastern marches and the uncrowned king to half their people, is utterly undone by a few words from _him._ He crosses the room slowly, footsteps deliberate and careful, and watches as every sound of leather sole on stone seems to cut through the thousand careful masks that his husband has donned to keep himself aloof. He is hard, and aching - his trousers were tight before and now they are very nearly painful, and the thought of what Maitimo's mouth might do to him is ever on the edges of his thought.

At last, he is standing beside his husband, and one hand reaches out to skim over the creamy shoulders that rise up just below his waist, and at his touch Maitimo gasps, and flinches again, and his head falls back to be cradled by Findekáno's arm. The prince answers this by running his fingers up neck and jaw, tracing bone and caressing soft flesh, and he walks a tight circle about the kneeling _nér_ before coming to a halt in front of him. It is easy to sink to his own knees, his free hand running down pale chest to hip and thigh; he draws Maitimo's hair to one side and kisses his husband's neck.

"You are very hard for me, _maira-nînya,"_ Findekáno murmurs, and is rewarded with a low groan. He smiles, and resumes his careful work, lips finding the places behind jaw and ear that he knows will leave Maitimo weak-kneed and wanting, and he takes his husband's cock in his other hand and begins to stroke it slowly. There is a gasp, and a shudder, and he is very nearly pinned to the floor by a far larger _nér_ losing control of his legs, but he anchors them both, opening their bond as far as he can and draping it over the two of them.

"I have you," he says, in between yet more kisses. "You are safe, my love. You can let go."

Another gasp, another hitched breath, and he feels a surge of warmth in his mind that is barely held back by the last vestiges of Maitimo's constant vigilance. There is nothing Findekáno can say, or argue, or claim, that will convince his husband to relax, not when he is lord of Himring and every day brings another threat, not when he spent decades as a prisoner and any of his weaknesses might have been exploited. And so they resort to this, the latest in a long series of games and couplings, meant to give some sort of relief from an ever-watchful mind and a growing sense of dread.

 _Do you want this?_ he asks, careful and quiet. His hand stills, his mouth comes to rest at the base of Maitimo's neck.

 _Yes,_ the other _nér_ answers him instantly. _Please._

 _Then you will have it,_ Findekáno replies, and draws back from his husband, blushing at how warm he is becoming as he watches Maitimo struggle not to seize him and hold him close.

"Soon, my love, my lovely one," he says, rising up to his feet again. "You are doing splendidly, you are so wonderfully good for me. You must wait a little while longer, and then I will see to you."

The corset is lying upon a table, and he picks it up easily. He has worn them before, beneath robes and gowns and tunics; Maitimo has not. This will be adventurous for both of them, but perhaps the risk will come with great reward. He kneels again, this time behind his husband.

"I need your arms in front, sweet one," he orders, and the speed at which he is obeyed sends a thrill chasing up his spine from his hips, and he very nearly moans himself. It is easy now to slide the corset around the chest and back that he is beginning to wish he could cover in bites and bruises, easy to thread the twine through each grommet until it is loosely held in place and does not slide down to his thighs. When it is finished, Maitimo will be bound up from shoulder to hip, and hopefully he will have found some semblance of peace.

"Can you hold still for me, while I lace you up?" Findekáno asks, and he catches the soft whine at the back of Maitimo's throat, and he smiles again and presses a soft kiss to the back of his husband's shoulder. So often their lovemaking is fierce, and desperate, and possessive, and ends with someone facedown in the mattress and sore for days afterward - it is immense, and intimidating, to try for something gentler. But still his fingers find the laces, after running up and down the back and shoulders they will be binding, and he begins the careful work of drawing them tight.

The first hint of restriction comes with a gasp from Maitimo, and Findekáno laughs softly. and takes the laces in one hand. He drapes his husband's hair over his shoulder, and gives another kiss to the base of a shaking neck.

"You can do this for me, can't you, Russo?" he asks, teasing and gentle. "You can be still for me, be quiet, be soft, be good. I know you can." His fingers are working, drawing the laces tight, easing inch after inch of twine through his hands. The corset is taking its shape, forming the easy curves of the hourglass that he seeks, and every passing heartbeat leaves his husband more and more breathless. And always, _always,_ he is speaking, and the softness of his words falls over Maitimo's kneeling form like a river over rock.

"That's it, love. You can do a little more for me, can't you? There, just like that. Oh, you are lovely, you are wonderful, you are so good for me, that's it, a little further - "

The knot is drawn tight, at last, and when Findekáno lets go of the laces he sighs to see how elegant his handiwork is. Maitimo is straight-backed, his waist very nearly waspish now beneath the dark linen of the corset, and his breath is labored and shallow and _needy,_ and his hair is brilliant red and streaming over his shoulders.

"Oh, you are _perfect,"_ Findekáno says, and he is nearly breathless with desire.

He moves to face his husband again, and at last, at _last,_ Maitimo has opened his eyes, and they are distant and desperate. He says nothing still, but his expression is brimming with plaintive need, and there are a thousand questions that he is swallowing back. His arms slide behind him once again, hand grasping wrist at his waist, and even though he is still taller than Findekáno he almost seems to shrink back into himself with every soft touch to arm and collarbone and jaw.

"Do you want me, _vanimelda?"_ Findekáno asks, and he has to fight back a moan of his own when Maitimo's cock twitches at his words. "Oh, I think you do. You've been so good for me, so soft, so quiet. You've knelt for me, and been still for me. I think you deserve a reward."

When he moves to draw his husband back into his arms, he feels the last vestiges of panic and terror give way to pure relief. The sheer weight of it crashes into him, overwhelming them both more thoroughly than any climax could; Maitimo is sobbing into his shoulder and the tears are soaking the fabric of his tunic. Beneath the inescapable totality of peace is a certainty that thrums like a harp string - _I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm_ safe - and Findekáno finds he is on the edge of weeping himself.

"I have you, _veru-nînya,"_ he says aloud, sliding his hand between them and resuming its earlier work of stroking and caressing. "I have you. The whole of you. I will guard you, will protect you. I - you have my word." He has very nearly said _I swear it,_ but such a pledge would gain him nothing but complaints in the midst of the act of love, and so he keeps silent and buries that private oath in the depths of his heart instead. He cradles a half-collapsed Maitimo against him with his free arm, murmuring praise upon praise, and always his hand is at work, stroking, stroking -

Maitimo shudders, and comes into Findekáno's hand with a stifled cry.

"That's it," the prince murmurs. "I knew you could come for me." The arm that is draped over Maitimo's back is already working to undo the knot in the laces, and once the corset gives way, his husband's arms are about him, and they slam back into the floor in a tangle of limbs and discarded undergarments. For a long while they are still, overwhelmed by color and light and the enormity of shared gratitude; at last Findekáno tries to sit up.

"Nn," Maitimo mutters, clinging to him. He laughs, and shifts so his back is to his husband.

"Am I trapped here, then?" he asks, and when the other _nér_ nods vigorously he shakes his head.

"You're too silly for your own good, Russo," he chuckles. "Wouldn't you rather be in bed?"

There is silence, but he gets the distinct impression that getting into bed would require _movement,_ which is definitely off the table.

"All right, love," he says, reaching up to draw Maitimo's arms close about his chest. "All right."

It does not take long for them to drift off to sleep.


End file.
